At Fourteen

Silver Spring kids, we met most often on a huge fallen log across the stream that ran into Rock Creek, and we balanced there, high above the water, smoked cigarettes, or wrapped in each other’s arms, body to body, practiced kissing and whatever else we could manage. His mouth was soft. He could swear, make out, act indifferent, complain, get embarrassed all in five minutes. If he did anything I didn’t like, I said it was “disgusting.”

That was my favorite word that spring. “Disgusting.” Stretched out, drawled with my Maryland accent. That and “fabulous.” Everything was “disgusting” or “fabulous.”

I knew everything about sex and nothing, and so did Tony, and neither of us knew it would kill him.

The woods were thick and wild one block from my house, and we plunged in, cut school, rode horses from Pegasus Riding Stable, lied to the owner that it was Saint Cecilia’s Day (or Saint Sebastian’s or Saint Angela’s)and we were out of school. I didn’t even go to Catholic school then, but Tony knew all the saints. We had enough to go around. We rode down to Beech Drive, a mile or so inside the District Line, then found a place in the dense thickets of holly and sweetbriar, May apples, wild ferns. The crush of vegetation and the crush of bodies, spring: we learned it touch by touch.

Or we rode across the lush meadows near Rock Creek, fast as a horse could run, watching all the time for Park Police who would come after us and, being better riders, catch us. It happened twice, and both times we talked our way out of it.

Once we skipped school, took a bus to the Franciscan Monastery and found a small, perfect catacomb under the church with niches for nonexistent dead. We stretched out in them till we realized we were going to be locked in for the night. A mural showed the dead rising on Judgment Day in a room down there. We got out by climbing a velvet rope and put half our change in the poor box in gratitude. The next week we went to see the Bronze Horses by the river, heroic gifts from Italy.

The river is wide there, flat and calm, not really deep, and the beaten gold was new. I don’t know why Italy gave the horses to us. Japan gave cherry trees.

“Wanna climb up?”

We eyed the wide backs, the perfect shapes. We would be like gods, sitting up there above the Potomac. A police car came around the circle, and we dodged away.

In the Reflecting Pool, we saw only sky. All Washington spread around us, and we ignored it, attracted only to bits and pieces, golden horses, forest deeps.

Tony was arrested for theft two weeks later, tried in Montgomery County’s Juvenile Court, sent to the Maryland Training School for Boys. Raped. He killed himself.

I was sent to the nuns.

Janet Shell Anderson has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for fiction and published flash fiction in Quail Bell Magazine, Grey Sparrow, FRIGG, decomP, Convergence, The Citron Review, Cease Cows, Vestal Review, and others. She is am originally from Maryland and is an attorney.

Well of Souls

Her naked shoulder turned sideways as she slid between two green boulders and disappeared like smoke in darkness. Earlier, hot dust tingled in my nose like freshly cut spice. Earlier yet, dawn grew among declining stars. Abbas spoke beside me as we turned our horses onto a blank slate of desert sands. “Jonathan, you will see today the great treasure of our people.” I rubbed my sleep-burdened eyes. “Worth arising so early?” Maryam murmured from my other side, “It is.” Abbas continued, “Water flows from this well even in dry years like this one.” Maryam nodded. “The women of the well sometimes wander far.” “Women of the well?” I asked. “Bah!” snorted Abbas, “An old wives’ tale!” Maryam shook her head. “No, Abbas, a promise! It is their tears, tears of both joy and sorrow, which bring back the rains. When their journeys end so will the drought.” Abbas muttered, “Bah!” Dust yellow as turmeric billowed from beneath the horses’ hooves as we hobbled them in the shade of two sandstone slabs leaning together. Maryam scampered ahead of us into a slit in the hillside. I followed Abbas into the opening. Coolness enfolded me. Pools stair-stepped away into a cavern’s depths. Waters trickled from one to another like words meandering from grandmothers' lips. Maryam’s voice chimed like distant bells, “This way!” Abbas shouted, “Wait for us!” She looked back, her eyes teasing like starlight on a midnight sea. "Wait, Maryam!" She cast off her robe and ran. Abbas called again, “Wait!” Her naked shoulder turned sideways as she slid between two green boulders and disappeared like smoke in darkness. I never saw Maryam again.Abbas and I rode between newly planted fields toward the city. Gathering clouds, round and heavy as mares’ bellies, deepened dusk behind us.

Robert is an experienced SF writer. His novella Vienna Station won the Galaxy prize and was published as an e-book. It is available for Kindle on Amazon. He co-wrote “The Man Who Murdered Mozart” with Barry Malzberg a few years back. See more of his work here.

The Frog King

"Oh, I will promise you all," said she, "if you will only get me my ball." But she thought to herself, "What is the silly Frog chattering about? Let him remain in the water with his equals; he cannot mix in society." But the Frog, as soon as he had received her promise, drew his head under the water and dived down. Presently he swam up again with the ball in his mouth, and threw it on the grass. The King's daughter was full of joy when she again saw her beautiful plaything; and, taking it up, she ran off immediately. "Stop! stop!" cried the Frog; "take me with thee. I cannot run as thou canst." But all his croaking was useless; although it was loud enough, the King's daughter did not hear it, but, hastening home, soon forgot the poor Frog, who was obliged to leap back into the fountain."

The Gertrude Chronicles

The lump in my sister’s armpit was the size of a ripe cherry before she would let herself be taken to the doctor’s. She had fought the idea like McCarthy bearing down on a suspected communist, delivering long dinner lectures about the normality of a gravelly bulge appearing in one’s underarm region. “It’s just armpit blubber. I’m fat, that’s all,” she said, plucking at fingernailfuls of skin from her thin arms and ramming her face into her chest to create a rippling series of chins. “See, look at all that flab. So shut your mouths, fuckfaces.” “Language, Claire.” “Duckfaces.” “Much better,” crooned my mother, and spooned more spaghetti onto her plate. “Now, eat up, your tumor needs nourishment too.” “It’s not a tumor!” She speared me with an angry glance. “Back me up here.” “It’s not a tumor,” I repeated. I stole a look at her armpit. The lump flopped over the sleeve of her strapless summer dress like a flesh-colored stress ball. “Just trying to lighten the mood!” said Mom, and she whistled her way back into the kitchen. Claire cleared her throat. “I guess it does look like a—tumor, a little.” “Yes,” I said, through a mouthful of spaghetti. “And tumors are generally, you know, bad for one’s health.” “Yes.” As my mother came bustling back into the dining room with a tray of fresh bread, Claire draped herself across her chair as if she were a saint awaiting martyrdom. “Cart me away, bitches.”

See You in My Dreams

He sat perfectly still, contemplating bolting out the door of the fast-food restaurant. She zipped back and forth, looking at the floor, perhaps making the biggest decision of her life. Both in their early 30s, they hadn’t seen each other in six years. She approached him. Like a crown, her headset, rested atop her black hat, hid most of her short, light brown hair. Her dark hazel eyes peered right at him as she walked from behind the counter toward his table. She looked sharp in her ironed uniform, like she really gave a damn about her job.Both of them waited for the other to speak first. His black hair was gelled and combed flawlessly, but his green eyes looked at her with skepticism. She gazed at him in his black tie and spotless green shirt. “Is that really you?” she asked. “Can you believe it?” He looked at her. “You look good.”“Thanks,” he said. “So, this is where you work?”“For the time being.”A few moments passed. Their eyes were stuck on each other, tallying differences and recognizing similarities.“Can you ever forgive me?” she asked. “How could I not forgive you?” he asked. She blushed. He felt a comfort in that. “Hey, can we spend some time together today? I leave tonight on a late flight, so I have nothing but time and nothing to do.”“Where do you live now?”“In a city far from here, far from you and everyone else I used to know and used to call my friends.”“I think I could make the time today,” she said. He said he’d wait for her outside. She told the two working teenagers she’d be gone for a while. So they went. He drove his rental car aimlessly through the town where they had grown up: where they became lovers, where they spent their teenage lives, where he spent half his twenties.“I wonder about you all the time. Who you’re with. What you’re doing. Now, I see you for myself,” he said after a few minutes of silence.“I never thought I’d see you again.” She placed her hand on his.“Yeah. So, where do you wanna go?”“I’ll go wherever you want,” she said.He parked downtown, which brought back memories. The couple walked hand-in-hand, pretending to be teenagers. They passed the movie theater, the place of their first date and kiss; the CD store where they first met, now a sandwich eatery; and their high school, where they made out during passing periods. She saw these sights daily, but he didn't. “Let’s make this the best day we’ve ever spent together.” She brought his arm in closer. He bought a digital camera for the day to record their farewell festivities. They ate at an expensive restaurant with white tablecloths, the first one he saw, one she couldn’t afford. Then, they walked all the way to the park. In the empty park, they reached the beautiful, dark-blue pond where they had spent most of their time together. The scenery at the pond was too much for her. She blinked tears from her watering eyes. The pond was where she had promised to love him, but also where she had broken that vow. The man remembered everything but remained silent.“You know,” he said. “I’ve tried many times to forget. I’ve tried to forget you. But that did little good. It took years for me to deal with it properly.”She knew. She nodded.“It’s okay,” he said, unsure what he really meant. “We’re going to be okay.”She kissed him. They made love in their secret spot by the pond. His gut now hung over his 40-inch waist. His body was softer, squishier than she remembered. She didn’t even bother to put on makeup that day. Her hair was now black from the blonde she had in her 20s. He rubbed against her stubbly legs. “You gave me as good of a day as anyone can ask for.” She began to cry. “You know how we can make it even better?” He smiled, putting his arm around her. “Trick question. Nothing can,” she said.“Put your clothes on and follow me.”She smiled. He sprang up and offered his sweaty palm to help her stand up. They walked back to the car in silence, turning to look at each other every minute, making sure the other was still there. “You have no idea how excited I am to show you this,” he said. She giggled like a teenage girl. He opened the trunk, where a pistol lay. “You wanted to show me a gun?” She recoiled from his grip. “Yes, my love.”He reached to pick it up, but she kicked him in the groin. He fell to his knees. She picked up the pistol.“You still are a pussy.”He woke up in a sweat.In his past dreams, it was an axe or a shotgun. He rubbed his eyes and turned to the other side of the bed, but she was missing. She stood over him, holding a steak knife. He closed his eyes, awaiting what came next.

Chris Wilkensen is a wandering English instructor. He is trying to figure out what he wants in life, while being careful not to let life pass him by. He has trouble winning both battles simultaneously. His work has appeared in Thoughtsmith, eFiction, The Story Shack and others.

Alternative Beauty

Liz Parlett graduated from the Maryland Institute College of Art with a BFA in Illustration and a minor in Gender Studies. They now work out of Northern Virginia, sustained by rage, flannel, and children’s cartoons.